Thursday. 6:30 P.M.
After leaving Tallulah’s, McCabe headed back to his apartment and called Dave Hennings in D.C. His partner for nearly five years, Hennings was a tough, smart cop who’d moved on from the NYPD after 9/11 and was now a player in the federal air marshals program. He had connections with all the major airlines.
‘McCabe, my man, how the hell are you? It’s gotta be, what? At least a year since we spoke.’
‘At least that, Dave. I’m okay. How’s Rosemary?’ Hennings’s wife was a breast cancer survivor.
‘Still hanging in. Five years and counting. We keep our fingers permanently crossed. You and Kyra still an item?’
‘Definitely an item,’ said McCabe.
‘I read about the murder of that girl and thought about how you were so sure things would be nice and quiet up there in Maine. Guess you were a little optimistic.’ McCabe smiled to himself. Wait till Dave heard the rest of it. ‘Anyway, that’s not why you called.’
‘Dave, I need a favor.’
‘I figured. Go for it, partner.’
‘There’s a doctor in North Carolina named Matthew Wilcox. He’s a big-deal heart surgeon at UNC Hospital in Chapel Hill. I need to know if he traveled from Chapel Hill to Portland on any or all of three separate occasions.’
‘He have something to do with your murder case?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I can’t talk about it now. So I’d appreciate it if you could just trust me on this one.’
‘I always trust you, McCabe. Always have.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Anyway, back to your doctor. Going out of Chapel Hill, he would have flown out of Raleigh-Durham,’ said Hennings. ‘Going to Portland, he’d probably take United. Maybe US Air. Most likely changed planes in D.C. What are your dates?’
‘December 2004 and April this year. Last trip would have had him here sometime last week. No firm travel dates. We’ll need to check a range.’
‘You don’t want to make a formal request to the airlines?’
‘Not if you can get the information quicker. I don’t have a lot of time on this one.’ He didn’t tell Hennings there was another life at stake.
‘Okay, I’m fairly well connected with senior people at both United and US Air. I should be able to check it pretty quick.’
‘Thanks, Dave. That’s what I hoped you’d say.’
As soon as he hung up, McCabe called Melody Bollinger at the Miami Herald. He reached the city editor. ‘Sorry, Detective, Mel doesn’t work here anymore. Anything I can do for you?’
‘No thanks. You know where I can reach her?’
‘She’s moved to New York. Got an offer from the Daily News a couple of years ago.’
McCabe thanked him. He didn’t need to look up the number for the News.
‘Melody Bollinger speaking.’ Melody’s voice didn’t live up to her name.
‘Ms. Bollinger? This is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. Portland, Maine, Police Department.’
‘Portland? Maine? McCabe?’ He might just as well have said he was the chief cop in Siberia. ‘McCabe? Oh yeah. You’re the lead on the murder of that teenaged kid. What’s her name?’
‘Dubois. Katie Dubois.’
‘That’s right. What can I do for you, Detective?’
‘Ms. Bollinger -’
‘Call me Mel.’
‘Mel, then. In Miami, you covered the murder of Lucas Kane in March of 2001.’
‘Yeah, I worked on that. What’s it have to do with you? Or Maine?’ She sounded curious.
‘Listen, can we meet? I’d like to talk to you about Kane’s murder.’
‘Why don’t you just call the cops in Miami Beach?’
‘I spoke to Detective Sessions already. I thought you might be able to provide a little more insight. Shouldn’t take long.’ There was a pause at her end. ‘I might also have something you may be interested in.’
‘Might and may? Goodness, Detective, you certainly know how to whet a girl’s appetite. Why don’t you just tell me on the phone what it might be that you may have? Then I might, or may, bite. I assume it’s about Dubois.’
‘As I said, I’d rather discuss it in person.’ He was sure he’d learn more from Bollinger if they spoke face-to-face.
‘Well, that could be a bit of a problem, Detective, since I’m in New York and you’re in Maine. I’m not flying up to Maine without something a little more substantive than mays and mights.’
‘I’m prepared to come to New York. There’s a US Air flight that leaves here at seven tomorrow morning. Can you meet me at LaGuardia around eight thirty?’
McCabe thought for a minute she might turn him down, but her reporter’s instincts were too strong. ‘Okay, what’s the flight number?’
He told her.
‘I’ll meet you at the baggage area,’ she said. ‘I’m blond, five foot three, and my friends describe me as zaftig.’
‘How do your enemies describe you?’
‘We won’t get into that. I assume you look like a cop.’
Casey wandered into the room just as he hung up the phone. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘A reporter in New York.’
He was sitting in his big leather chair, and she flopped down on his lap.
‘What am I supposed to call her?’
‘Who? The reporter?’ he teased.
‘No. My mother. Do I call her Mom? Or Mrs. Ingram? Or what?’
‘Well, since you call Kyra Kyra and Jane Jane, why don’t you just call her Sandy?’
‘Am I supposed to kiss her?’
‘Not if it feels uncomfortable.’
‘What if she kisses me first?’
‘You can let her know what you’re comfortable with. If you don’t mind if she kisses you, that’s okay. If you don’t like it, ask her not to.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
‘I think she’ll understand.’
‘I don’t have anything to wear.’
‘What do you mean? You have lots of stuff.’
‘Yeah. Right. Stuff. We’re staying at this fancy hotel and going to these fancy restaurants and a show and everything and all I’ve got is stuff. Yucky stuff.’
He thought about that for a minute. ‘Okay. Let’s go shopping.’
That got her attention. ‘Where?’
‘How about the mall? They’re open for another couple of hours.’ He pushed her onto the floor and stood up. ‘Get your shoes on.’
She ran off to get them. Meanwhile, he speed-dialed Kyra’s cell.
‘Hiya, handsome.’
‘We’ve got an emergency here. I need your help.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Can you meet Casey and me at the mall in fifteen minutes? In front of Macy’s?’
‘I guess so. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’ He punched end as he and Casey left the apartment.
McCabe felt like he’d been cast in the Richard Gere role in Pretty Woman as Kyra and Casey worked their way through five stores in less than two hours. Thank God this was the Maine Mall and not Rodeo Drive. In each store, he tried to find a place to sit while the two of them picked out armloads of clothes and disappeared into the fitting room. Finally they left the mall carrying four shopping bags filled with shirts and pants and shoes and one dressy dress. McCabe thought the dress was a little tarty for a thirteen-year-old. Kyra told him he was totally ignorant about fashion and not to worry his pretty little head about it. He decided not to. His role was to pay the bills. Somehow. They headed across the parking lot to Pizzeria Uno for dinner.
Even at quarter to nine on a Thursday night the place was busy, he assumed with people who’d just left the mall or the nearby Cineplex. The hostess looked about the same age as Katie Dubois. McCabe wondered if the two knew each other. The girl wore too much makeup, and her bare plump tummy flopped out over the waistband of her black pants. McCabe watched it jiggle as she showed them to an empty table in the middle of the room. He figured she wasn’t a soccer player.
He looked around. There were a lot of faces he didn’t know, and the idea of sitting in the middle of a crowded room suddenly seemed stupid. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. Maybe he was being more paranoid than he ought to be. Hell, they were in Pizzeria Uno. On the other hand, hadn’t the day before yesterday started with the murders of an innocent kid and a veteran cop? Hadn’t the maniac who killed both nearly succeeded in slashing McCabe to death as well? Maybe it wasn’t paranoia.
He spotted a corner booth where he could have his back to the room. He asked Flabby Tummy if she would seat them there, told her he was superstitious and he thought that was his lucky table. ‘No problem,’ she said, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I hate Friday the thirteenth myself.’
Casey slid in first, her back to the wall. McCabe sat next to her. Kyra took the bench across from them. The girl handed them menus, and a busboy filled their glasses with water. Meanwhile, McCabe scanned the room, looking for anyone looking at them. He checked possible exits. He calculated lines of fire. He brushed his right hand over his . 45, making sure it was still there.
As it touched the weapon, his hand started shaking. Kyra noticed. Casey didn’t. Delayed stress reaction. He willed it to stop. It wouldn’t. He hid the hand under the table. He told himself to relax. That didn’t work either. He imagined the headlines. homicide HOMICIDE COP SUFFERS NERVOUS BREAKDOWN ORDERING THIN-CRUST PIZZA. He didn’t laugh.
‘Your server will be with you in a moment,’ Flabby Tummy said and left.
Kyra’s hand took his, under the table. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered, her blue eyes registering concern, the familiar little line appearing just above her nose.
‘Just a little edgy. Long day.’
‘Hi, I’m your server, Brian. How are you folks tonight?’
‘We’re great, Brian. How are you?’ Casey was smiling up at him. Damn, she’s flirting, thought McCabe. Thirteen years old and she’s flirting with a waiter who needs a shave. Twenty’s gonna be a rough seven years away. Kyra squeezed his hand tightly, smiled, and winked at him.
‘Can I start you folks off with something to drink?’
McCabe ordered a Coke for Casey, a white wine for Kyra, and Dewar’s on the rocks for himself. Somehow single malt, even if they had it, didn’t go with the ambience.
When the drinks came, he took a long slug of his own. It helped. Alcohol depressing the central nervous system was just what he needed. Maybe he’d just say the hell with it and become a drunk. Not uncommon among cops. Of course, neither was suicide. Okay, he told himself, either balance the traumas of the job with the traumas of your life or you get yourself another job. Another life.
That night in bed, the shaking came back worse than before, and with it the cold sweats. Kyra tried to calm it by laying her body on top of his and rocking him gently. She asked if this ever happened before. Just once, he said, the night after he shot TwoTimes, but that night he had no one to hold him. Sandy was gone and he had slept alone.
They didn’t make love. They just rocked until about two in the morning, when McCabe fell asleep. When he woke at five, she was still holding him. The shakes were gone.